All at once a
wind of hostility seemed to be blowing. Somewhere in the dusk, somebody
laughed lightly. Robert's face blazed, but he was still master of
himself.
"And so you would leave after speaking to me in a manner that is an
insult," sneered Boucher.
"You were the first to give an insult."
"If you think so I am ready to return satisfaction."
Boucher folded his arms across his chest, his powerful wrists crossed,
and stared at Robert, his lips wrinkling in ugly fashion. It was a look
like that which Tandakora had given him, and there in the background was
the huge and sinister figure of the Indian, wrapped in his blanket of
flame. He also saw de Mezy and he too was sneering in insolent triumph.
De Courcelles, from whom he had a right at that time to expect
friendship, or at least support, had drawn farther away.
"I am a guest here," said Robert, "and I seek no trouble. I don't wish
to mar the hospitality of Monsieur Bigot by being a party to a quarrel
in his garden."
Again that light laugh came from a point somewhere in the dusk and again
Robert's face blazed, but he still held himself under firm control.
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